Robert Burns has risen from his grave to bless us all with a new poem called:
Tae A Smol Pixie
On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Polis
June, 2022
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous smol pixie beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy titmas breastie!
Thou need na start scampering awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering rage tweetin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murdering pumble!
I’m truly sorry HMRC's dominion
Has broken Pixie's Patreon union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At us, thy poor, earth-born Tattlers
An’ fellow- honest non griftin mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live oan Cotswolde Sideys!
A daimen-icker tiffany in tha lugs
‘S a sma’ requet;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee-bit shitey housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ orangerie and hydrangie blue!
An’ bleak December’s win’s ur honkin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thy posties askin
Thou saw the pay pigs laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary poverty comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the grift,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel polis past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ muddy puddle,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble, by wicked land lady
But house or hald,
To thole the per Rialto,
An’ cranreuch cauld thy feet in snow!
But Pixie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ smol pixies an’ goblins
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still thou are not blest, compared wi’ me!
The money only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I cannot see,
I guess an’ fear that taxman, the polise, plus Lozza an his pals!